Eclipse of the Knight: Reborn
by kirk2010
Summary: UPDATED AND REVISED for 2013! How would you react if you found yourself in the middle of a burned mission, betrayed and left for dead, only to have a dying, reclusive billionaire remake your face in his image, and give you the keys to three things: a new life, a fancy car, and revenge? Re-imaged for the present day, Michael Long is about to find out he no longer exists...
1. Chapter One

Michael Long walked into his bedroom and dropped a half-packed duffel bag on his bed. Quickly on his heels was his fiancée, Steffanie Mason.

Steffanie, whom had been nicknamed Stevie for most of her life, sat down on the bed and looked up at him. A definite sparkle of fear shined through her striking blue eyes, but Michael's back was turned. Stevie always thought that Michael was not one to pick up on subtleties, but she was wrong. Michael knew she was nervous – it was easy to tell with her for two reasons: her voice got shaky when she would speak, but when she noticed that herself, she would then get extremely quiet.

The two of them were college sweethearts, and neither of them had been with anyone else through almost their entire lives. They were both late bloomers in the dating realm and they were each other's first everything and it had firmly remained that way for years.

Michael was in his early 30s and stood at six-foot-two. He moved gracefully about the bedroom with long strides. He towered over Stevie's five-foot-eight inch frame, and frequently joked with her about how often she fell behind when they would walk together. His main defense was that with smaller legs and a shorter stature, she should be able to walk faster. Stevie always sought out curbs, ledges and inclines to increase her height when she stood next to him.

Stevie's large, blue eyes were accompanied by wavy blonde hair that she wore shoulder length and a round face with, what Michael described as, pouty lips – developed from years of trumpet lessons. In fact, her hook to get Michael interested in her in college was during a party when she drunkenly asked "Wanna know why you should date a trumpet player?"

Michael's figure was just about as slender as Stevie's, but stretched to accompany his height. He too had blue eyes, but they blended in with his darker toned skin as opposed to Stevie's pale complexion. He kept his light brown hair well-trimmed and spiked, and never let go of the military hair regulations that seemed to follow him since his discharge from the Army almost seven years ago.

He had a chiseled face which often gave off an imposing, yet natural glow of leadership and authority. Stevie once told her mom that his face could have been sculpted by Michelangelo himself; something she soon would regret as her mom and Michael would playfully gang up on her and never let her forget what she had said.

Often times, Stevie would bash away Michael's loving compliments. She would consider herself blonde, short and plain, but Michael never saw her that way. Those blue eyes of hers could always throw off his train of thought, and her blonde-but-not-too-blonde would brighten up any room as well as his day. He loved her smile, it was cute, and seemed to be permanent. When he turned around to look at her, he could see a hint of one, but there still was plenty of worry behind it. "Stevie?" he asked. A touch of concern was in his voice.

The two of them loved each other – it was blatantly obvious. Michael knew, deep down in his heart, he would do anything for Stevie.

Almost anything.

Stevie sat there silently for a few minutes, as she slowly spun a diamond ring around a certain finger on her left hand that Michael had placed there a few months ago. She thought about all the planning that was on the horizon in contrast to what Michael was about to do. "I don't like this… I don't want you to go."

Michael stopped his packing and sat down on the bed next too her. He ran his fingers through her hair. "You know I have to go, Stevie," he said, "we've been working too hard on this case. The Bureau has been interested in this for over a year and I've been on it for six months. We're taking everything down in a few nights."

"Who's all going?" Stevie asked.

"Paul and I are leaving tonight. Lonnie and Muntzy are already in place," Michael said. He walked inside their oversized closet and unlocked a safe. Tucked inside were his FBI identification and badge, his standard-issue Glock 22 handgun with holster, and a few fully-loaded magazines.

He clipped the holster around his belt, and tossed his ID and badge on the bed. Stevie picked it up and looked at it. The leather, dual-sided with clasp wallet contained his FBI identification on the left and his badge on the right. The gold badge was heavier than it looked, and the identification card itself was behind a plastic window. The most prominent features on the card were the large FBI lettering, Michael's picture, the words Special Agent, and his signature on the bottom.

Stevie could not have been more proud of Michael when he joined the FBI about six years ago. His medical discharge from the Army took a toll on him, and a lot of the recovery process was psychological as much as it was physiological. His last few years in the Army involved counter-intelligence work under Operation Iraqi Freedom.

She was his support when he came home, and in the tumultuous months that followed between his discharge and when the FBI snapped him up. Michael's academic and military background made him the poster child for the post 9/11 military, particularly for those who joined before 9/11 and then got caught up in the chaos that ensued afterword.

Michael loved his job almost as much as he loved Stevie. His involvement in the FBI wasn't originally part of the plan. All through his life, he was extremely interested in politics, and envisioned himself running for Congress as a Representative. He studied Political Science for two years before he enlisted in the Army when he was 20 years old. He wanted to run for office upon his discharge, using his active duty experience as part of his platform, but just two years into his enlistment, the towers came tumbling down.

Like many in the military at that time, the surge of patriotism hit Michael like a bolt of lightening. Before he knew it, he was overseas in Afghanistan with the Army Special Forces and had no plans to quit anytime soon. This, of course, caused a significant rift between him and Stevie at the time, who originally had no problems with him in the military, considering there wasn't a lot of action to see before 9/11.

Once the towers fell, however, Stevie found herself worrying daily, if not hourly while Michael was overseas. And when he switched from Special Forces to Counter Intelligence, what he and the military called COINTEL, she couldn't handle it much more and left him.

It hurt her more than it hurt him, or at least that's how Stevie felt. Because Michael was on the other end of a satellite phone with bad reception, during one of the rare times he was able to call home.

Then came the phone call to Michael's parents that his unit had been captured. They called Stevie immediately, and she stayed in touch with them until the word came months later that a gravely injured Michael and a few other soldiers were recovered upon escaping. She was there when he came home, and told him she would be there for him for as long as he would have her.

A wedding was now in their future, and when they got engaged a few months ago, cries of "finally" came from both of their friends and families. Michael finally felt secure enough in not only his future, but also their future together. He had half a dozen years in at the FBI, and while his political aspirations could possibly be a thing of the past, he was comfortable with what was ahead.

Stevie handed him his badge and ID and hugged him tightly. She nestled her head underneath his chin and lightly sighed. "I still don't want you to go," she said. She looked up to face Michael; her forehead just barely reached his nose, "I have a bad feeling about this."

Michael lightly laughed, "I knew we shouldn't have seen Star Wars at the theatre downtown," he said. His smile faded soon when he realized Stevie didn't find the humor in the matter. He stooped a bit down to her level and cradled her face in his hands. Her skin was always incredibly soft, and he stroked her cheeks with his thumbs.

Her blue eyes were starting to glisten and Michael could see a tear or two well up. Not even gravity could normally make Stevie's tears fall; they just sat there and magically drained elsewhere it seemed. But tonight her normally strong demeanor gave way and the tears made a beeline down her cheeks. Michael moved his thumbs to stop them, to do anything to comfort her and make her feel better. She thrust herself against him and held him tight. Michael kissed the top of her head and held her tightly in kind. "Shhh," he whispered, "I got out of a lot tougher situations over there. Think of this as a business trip to Vegas."

"Something just doesn't feel right," Stevie said. Michael was about to interrupt but she caught him before he could, "I know you said this is just industrial espionage. Just please be careful, Michael."

Michael nodded and picked up his duffel bags. He kissed Stevie on the top of her head and walked downstairs with her.

"What's all that?" she asked, and pointed into the kitchen where the tops of some flowers were just barely visible. She started to walk into the kitchen for a closer look, but Michael grabbed her and pulled her back.

"Just something for later," he said with a smile and a wink. He led her out to the street of their Georgetown home where a taxicab was waiting. The driver took his bags and placed them in the trunk. Michael turned to Stevie for one more kiss which she obligingly returned. She was about to speak when he cut her off. "I know," he said, "I'll be careful."

Stevie nodded. She held his hand tightly, "I know you will," she said. She smiled for the first time in a few hours.

Michael kissed her again, this time the two lovers let it linger, neither of them wanted to break their connection. Stevie did, only because she knew she couldn't let him go if she kissed him any longer.

"Go see what's in the kitchen," Michael said as he got inside the cab. He lowered the window and looked up at Stevie, one of the few times she would be taller than him. "I'll be back soon. I promise."

As Michael's cab drove away, another one of Stevie's former gravity defying tears fell down her cheek and onto the street. She walked back into their home, by herself as she had done a number of times. She couldn't place why she was worried so much about Michael going undercover to Las Vegas. In fact, his partners Lonnie and Muntzy had been in deep cover for months, and unheard from in awhile. There should be more reason of concern for them than Michael.

Michael's team was close, and Stevie sometimes felt like an outsider in the process because he was the only one in an overt relationship. But no matter what, when it came to various social outings, the team embraced her and made her feel welcome. Michael wasn't the oldest of the bunch, that honor was of Paul Taylor, their team leader who was a widower. Lonnie and Muntzy were in their late twenties and entered the FBI straight out of college. They knew no other life. And, what no one else knew that Stevie did, they knew each other… Extremely well.

Stevie almost forgot about what Michael left for her in the kitchen. He was always leaving little surprises for her to find randomly, and tokens of love for when he would go overseas, on assignment or undercover.

She remembered seeing flowers as Michael hurried her past the kitchen a few minutes ago. When she walked into the kitchen she smiled and sighed at the same time. Sitting on the counter was a bouquet of fresh roses of all different varieties and vibrant colors. And while there was a mix, she could tell there was an over abundance of yellow roses – her favorite color. On one of their earlier dates as they were passing through a rose garden, Stevie once told Michael that she could never pick a single rose to enjoy as she loved them all.

The flowers were not the only things on the counter however. This was new, she thought, as Michael normally left just one thing. This time, a slim white box accompanied her bouquet. She opened it and gasped. Laying inside was a gold heart-shaped necklace; it wasn't solid, instead made up of different interleaving bands. She was about to put it on when she noticed some writing on the inside of the box. She read it over and smiled. It was a quote that Michael apparently remembered from long ago.

While they were in college, they spent a weekend at the Kansas State Fair, and one night they visited a Fortune Telling Booth. Michael thought it would be cheesy but Stevie thought it would be cute.

The woman who claimed to be a shaman told them their love was eternal and transcended all bonds and levels of life. She equated their love and life together to roses, which at that time excited Stevie because she had not mentioned her love of roses to the woman.

After they left the booth, Michael poked fun at what the woman said, while Stevie found it to be incredibly romantic. She had long forgotten it, and figured Michael did too, but was beyond surprised when she saw it, scribbled in his handwriting, written on the lid of her necklace box.

_You may break  
You may shatter the vase  
But the scent of the roses will hang around it still  
The scent of the roses will linger forever_.


	2. Chapter Two

Over a year ago, it became rather evident to the FBI that top secret and sensitive designs had been stolen from a variety of companies with government contracts. Alarmingly, many of them had projects tied to national defense, some at the cutting edge of technology.

The thefts occurred over a substantial period of time, and there was some debate as to how long this had been happening. What was clear, however, that a core group of individuals were at the center of the thefts and would only need a matter of months to infiltrate the companies and their security. They were swift and precise, so much so that the companies had no idea they were getting ripped off until very familiar designs and prototypes ended up on the black market.

The illegal sales of these designs were swift and quiet; long enough for the companies to be caught off guard, but quick enough to make any progress or updates on the designs negligible.

They also knew to take enough time off between the thefts and lay low for awhile so they couldn't be tracked.

About six months later, Michael and his team caught this when government analysts couldn't sit on the intel any longer. With that intel came one of the best criminologists the Bureau had seen in a long time. Natalie Markins had pieced everything together and was able to track the thefts at least five years, with evidence that could date back even further.

Natalie was brilliant, but she was book-smart and desk-smart and sometimes lacked certain skills that would allow her to fit in to the social-norm. But the FBI couldn't exist solely on field agents; the meat of their work relied on criminologists and analysts who spent the majority of their government career as desk jockeys.

She patiently waited for Paul Taylor's team to show up as she sat inside a drab and featureless room, save for a projector, screen, a few tables and chairs as well as her laptop. Natalie was quite familiar with Paul and his team members; she had worked with them in some capacity before. These particular Special Agents were more appreciative of her work and research, much more than others in the Bureau.

Sadly, Natalie had been on the receiving end of the "us vs. them" culture within the Bureau between the field agents and internal agents like her. Everyone knew the importance of her work along with her fellow colleagues, but the Field Agents always seemed to get more internal recognition. Her only solace from this was when the media reported about cases, there was no distinction made between the criminologists who did the work in the caverns of the Hoover Building, or the Special Agents in the field who caught shit or made the arrests, it was the FBI that saved the day. She didn't like that any more than Field Agents did, but at least they weren't getting preferential treatment from the public like they were internally.

Natalie wouldn't have made for good media fodder, anyway. She never was one to stay on top of trends and was rather plain looking. It was her choice, she never had a lot of time to really doll herself up and try to impress people – there was a lot of work to be done. She wore her brown hair in a modest ponytail and tended to dress in darker colors, staying close to black or charcoal suits. Her black and somewhat-thick rimmed glasses were only slightly in style, and were chosen as an alternative to contact lenses because Natalie just simply didn't want to deal them.

She didn't dwell much on what other people would call her shortcomings. Natalie was damn good at what she did and she knew it. If there was one thing on which she didn't second guess herself, it was her research and her skills as a criminologist. Some chose to call her arrogant and chose to distance themselves from her, but she chose to consider herself confident and competent. In just a few minutes, she was about to brief the team who would make a historic bust – all thanks to her intel.

* * *

Outside in the hallway, Michael and his two partners, Lonnie Sullivan and Jordan Muntzy, with their team leader, Paul Taylor walked together toward the briefing room. They cracked jokes and laughed, that was their style. When the time came to be serious, they would be, but otherwise they were laidback, and prided themselves on eschewing the model of the stuffy FBI Agent with no sense of humor.

Taylor may have been the team leader, but the team didn't belong to him, they all belonged to each other. They had been working together for almost two years, investigating varying cases of industrial espionage, government-sensitive thefts and various threats. This case was perfect for them.

As they reached the briefing room, Michael began to open the door, but he stopped and turned around. Muntzy was the first to react, "What?" he asked, barely able to stifle some laughter.

"Which one of you decided to make some smart-ass comment about me going through the door first," Michael asked. He looked back and forth between Taylor, Muntzy and Lonnie, all of whom were smiling and trying hard not to laugh.

It was an inside joke between the four of them, hell even Natalie was in on it sometimes. Somehow, no matter who was standing or walking next to whom, or how far behind he was, Michael always ended up being the first through a door, or the first to stand in a line. Sometimes it was intentional; the team would yield to Michael and let him go ahead – in those situations, Michael wouldn't realize what happened until he was through the door. Other situations, like this one, they were so preoccupied with something, they wouldn't notice that Michael almost magically appeared ahead of them.

The only times it wasn't funny was when Michael was first during a rough situation. But his combat and law-enforcement skills always saved his hide. When it was all over and no one was hurt, they would laugh about it and jokingly thank Michael.

This time, neither of the team were able to say their snide comment, for the door opened and on the other side was Natalie, "Good morning, Michael," she said, "figured you'd be the first one through."

Natalie's comment sent everyone over the edge and into near hysterics, causing other agents in the hallway to quizzically look at them as they passed by.

Everyone followed Michael and Natalie into the briefing room. Natalie took her place at the podium, while Michael sat down next to Muntzy. Taylor and Lonnie sat across from them. On the screen was what appeared to be a photo taken from surveillance footage of a man. The man appeared to be middle-aged, with dark brown hair that was somewhere between not short enough, but not too long, and a hardened face that might not be capable of smiling.

"This is Fred Wilson," Natalie said, "he's the Chief of Security for The NDS Group. NDS is one of our contractors specializing in systems engineering, operations and maintenance. Their main contract is developing a new computer system that will network and link all government databases and mainframes. It's done using a new computer processor that's more powerful than anything we've ever seen."

Taylor slightly raised his hand just to be polite and asked, "How did you track them to NDS?"

"After their most recent theft last year, we identified prime targets they may be interested in, based upon previous thefts. This processor is designed for government use only, never in the public sector. If it gets out there on the black market, it could cripple the worldwide economy by collapsing the computer market."

Michael whistled, "All because AMD and Intel would be undercut."

Natalie nodded, "Exactly. Now Wilson may be Chief of Security but he isn't protecting much these days, if anything. He doesn't work alone; we believe he has a team, but we haven't been able to identify any patterns except for one other man," Natalie brought a new picture on the screen. Facing them was a man who may have been slightly older than Wilson, but had a slimmer face, and shorter-gray hair that was well-kept, perhaps in military regulation, "His name is Grey. Here's the deal, these two guys are the pattern, but it's definitely Wilson calling the shots. We think that Wilson gets into security, takes it over, brings in Grey, dismisses everyone, and then hires local guys with not-so-clean-records to fill the rest of the spots and not ask questions."

Michael looked at the picture of Grey and immediately noticed something familiar, but he couldn't place it. He wasn't sure if Grey was just someone who had one of those faces, or if he knew him somehow. It was Grey's military-style haircut that stood out the most to Michael, he had seen that type of haircut a million times on a bunch of different men before, but something was different. It bothered him that he couldn't put his finger on it. "Something doesn't seem right here," he said.

"Hey man," Muntzy said, "this whole thing seems messed up."

"No, it's not that," Michael pointed to the picture, "I think I know this guy."

Taylor turned toward Michael, "How so?"

"Couldn't tell ya, boss. But something's familiar."

"We couldn't find anything on him, aside from tracking him with Wilson through past thefts. Otherwise he has a clean record." Natalie changed to another picture again, this time of a shorter man with glasses, slightly balding, smiling this time and standing with a strawberry-blonde woman who was considerably younger.

"Mmm-mmm-mmm," Muntzy exclaimed, "Please tell me you know her name."

Natalie rolled her eyes, "The man is Charles Acton, and he's the CEO of NDS. He has a reputation of having secretaries-of-the-month if you know what I mean. Acton is a notorious gambler, and loves to take his work on the road. Each time, every year, he heads out to Vegas and drops a million or two at the tables. Considering how unsecure of a move that is, I'm pretty damn sure this is where Wilson is going to make the steal."

"Now Nat, before we go further, lemme ask you this – have we tipped off Acton that he's about to get ripped off?" Taylor asked. He probably asked the question that was on everyone's minds in the room, at least everyone but Natalie.

Natalie shook her head, "No," she said, "we cant risk Wilson somehow finding out. If he's somehow taken over security in a few months, that means he's gotten to Acton. We can't risk tipping our hand – he's too dumb to heed our advice if we told him to keep quiet about it. We need to play this close to the chest.

"That's two poker references in one thought, Agent Markins. Did you forget to invite us to those wild parties you throw every night?" Muntzy asked.

"She could have, but she would have had your money, clothes and car in the first hand," Taylor shot back. He knew Natalie wouldn't have a witty comeback, either because her straightforward mind couldn't stray far enough to be a smart ass, or because she was anxious to get the rest of the briefing over.

The team let her finish the rest of her briefing without incident. Before she left the room, she wished them the best of luck. Deep down inside, she was a bit jealous she wouldn't be going with them. Not that field work was of any interest to her, but this case had been her baby for over six months, and in another six months, a team of agents would be in Las Vegas to break it. Oh well, she thought, at least it wasn't a bunch of thankless assholes doing the job.

"What's our plan?" Lonnie asked after Natalie left.

"Whoa, she speaks," Muntzy said.

"You've been pretty quiet, Lonnie," Taylor said, "something on your mind?"

Lonnie shook her head and sighed a little. Her question was merely hypothetical and that's what bothered her, she already knew the answer to the question, at least regarding her. Since the team focused a lot on industrial espionage and sometimes went undercover, Lonnie often found her role marginalized to that of a secretary or administrative assistant.

It's common knowledge that secretaries and assistants frequently 'hear things,' so much so that they are desired interview sources for lots of journalists. Whenever there is an anonymous sourced cited in a report, chances are it came from a secretary. But still, Lonnie wanted to avoid getting typecast.

"I already know where I fit into this," she said.

Taylor paused for awhile – there was no other way to soften the blow, "Well, kinda…"

Lonnie cut him off, "Jesus," she said. She stood up, crossed her arms and paced the room, "Come on Paul, give me a break," she pointed to her breasts and flipped her hand through her hair, "I'm more than just these and this. Get me in the middle of something… I'm just tired of being a ditzy secretary."

"No one said you have to be ditzy," Paul said, "someone is able to get close to these CEO's and rip them off right from under their noses. If you can get close enough you can figure it out, because I tell you what, it sure as hell isn't Wilson himself. It's either one of his shady local cronies, or someone else we haven't figured yet. We got six months until Acton hits the Strip."

Paul had the gift of being able to motivate the unmotivated. Lonnie was defeated, but knew she was able to get the job done. Paul knew too. His pep-talk was just as unnecessary as Lonnie's question. "So, Lonnie, you're going in almost right away to get close to Wilson and his staff, or even Acton himself. You'll know what to do. Acton plays at the same hotel every year, the Montecito. Muntzy, you're gonna be on maintenance staff."

"Yo, why's the Mexican on maintenance, man?" Muntzy asked. Michael was the first to laugh, with Lonnie and Paul following soon after. "Where are you going to be? The valet?"

"My black-ass will be watching all of you and keeping you alive," Taylor said. "Michael is going to be the last to go in. A few days before Acton heads to Vegas, we're going to arrange for a handful of Wilson's security staff to get arrested. They'll scramble to find help at the last minute and that's where you come in, Mike. We'll give you a phony background that's watertight and irresistible."

"I always liked feeling irresistible," Michael quipped.

"Don't get used to it," Lonnie shot back. In any other situation the team would have thought Lonnie was being – but not this time. Her tone was clipped and bitter. Whatever was behind that statement, she meant it.

And the team didn't get a chance to find out, because before they could finish processing it, Lonnie was gone.

* * *

A few hours later Muntzy walked through a clearing and found himself facing a statue of Theodore Roosevelt. He had a hunch Lonnie would be somewhere on this tiny island – it was her favorite place to go and reflect, especially when things bothered her. That, and he already checked her apartment and favorite restaurant.

"You probably should have come here first," a familiar voice said from off to his side.

Lonnie was not only skilled at finishing Muntzy's sentences, but also his thoughts – sometimes before he could manage to complete one. She sat on a bench, practically bent in half with her legs pulled close to her chest. Muntzy had always remarked on how painful and uncomfortable it had to be, but she maintained it was her favorite and most comforting position.

While Muntzy's first instinct was to come here, he also figured that Lonnie might have needed some time to herself. He walked over and sat down, "How are you?"

She allowed herself to teeter to her left and rested her head on Muntzy's shoulder, but still maintained her folded position. Instead of answering the question, she simply sighed. She closed her eyes and listened to the birds and the wind rustling through the trees. A plane flew low overhead on its final approach to Reagan. For the moment, Lonnie let herself get lost in the surroundings and the comfort of Muntzy's shoulder.

To say she never wanted this would be false; Lonnie always had some small voice nagging her in the back of her head that she would end up in law enforcement, which was incredibly ironic given she spent the majority of her time in junior high and in high school raising all kinds of hell in her small town.

Lonnie Sullivan was smart – whether it was naturally talented, or good and memorizing useless facts in class, she never had a problem with academics. Her major problem was shared among most of the children in her town – boredom.

She grew up in a master planned community about 25 miles outside of the suburbs of a major city. The community was developed in anticipation of burgeoning growth, but also marketed to families wanting to escape the perils of dangerous city life. Everything was meticulously planned, except how to entertain the town's youth.

Lonnie filled plenty of her days and nights with partying, drinking, vandalism, and casual sex – having never been caught. Mainly because the town's police were worried about giving the kids any kind of rap sheets. Of course this only encouraged the behavior. When high school graduation came around, most, if not all of her friends found themselves stuck there. With grades barely acceptable for high school graduation, let alone college, not that any of them had the motivation to move on in the first place.

She quickly found herself ostracized from her friends when she was the sole recipient of a full-ride scholarship to the state's fourth-tier university. And while Lonnie was excited to get out of the faux-idyllic and mediocre suburban life she grew up in, she found herself in what she thought to be an equality mediocre college, often the butt of jokes from students at other schools in the state. Lonnie did her best to make the most of her experience there, after all it was free… She embraced the typical college lifestyle, almost an extension of her life from home, just without the vandalism. And just like before, Lonnie's grades almost never suffered.

Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was meant for something more, and often lost sleep over her fears that she was destined to lead nothing but an average life.

One day, she wandered through a career fair on campus, still hungover, still in her clothes from the previous night's date dash. She had neared the end of her junior year, and while she didn't dare approach any of the recruiters, she hoped she would find something that would pique her interest, and maybe use her generic, mediocre, integrated communication major.

Then she saw three words – Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity – printed on some kind of sign, but obscured by the handful of students walking between the many tables. She laughed to herself because they formed the initials of the FBI, but as she drew closer, she realized it really was the FBI.

And that's when that small nagging voice came back – in the form of one of many cops who tried to stop Lonnie and her friends back home – who once told her that he wouldn't be surprised if she ended up somewhere in the field of law. She reflected on that, noting how he left it quite ambiguous… was he trying to inspire her to become a cop? A lawyer? Either way, Lonnie felt motivation that she had never felt before and resolved to spend her senior year working towards joining the FBI. Goodbye, mediocre life.

But now… those feelings came rushing back to her, and she didn't like it. She escaped. She moved on. She worked hard to join the Bureau and succeeded. But now she felt marginalized. Again. "Did you ever feel like you were meant for something more?" she asked, absently.

Muntzy had been waiting for Lonnie to say something. It was very rare that she would get so introspective, but it's happened at times. He gave up not too long ago trying to be a fixer, that type of hero-boyfriend to rush and solve her problems immediately. Sometimes a girl just needs someone to listen, she would say.

But in all those fleeting moments of thought, she never sounded as full of self-doubt as she did now. "Every day," he said, "that's why I'm here."

Lonnie shook her head, "No, that's not what I meant."

"I didn't think that was a multiple choice question," Muntzy said.

Lonnie eased in more against Muntzy and turned her body so her legs drooped off the side of the bench. She sighed, "Is it what you expected?" She glanced down at her ID and badge and the leather pouch containing them and turned them over and over in her hands.

"The first thing they told us at Quantico was to go in with no expectations," he said, looking at her badge as well, "besides, we've both been doing this a few years now – it's kinda hard to predict what to expect next."

Muntzy and Lonnie both met at the FBI Academy in Quantico, VA. By that point she had found enough purpose in her life to clean up her act and get serious about everything. Meeting Muntzy solidified that even further. She had quickly run out of significant firsts over the last ten years, but Muntzy became her first love.

Of course, cadets were strongly discouraged from dating each other because any kind of relationship that turned adversarial could spell trouble. Naturally, it happened to a lot of their friends, but somehow they escaped that.

Maybe that's because they both played it cool and kept it on the down-low. To both of them, it was nobody's business but their own – but they also knew that eventual graduation and assignment could end the relationship all the same.

Another plane sailed overhead, drowning out the birds and her thoughts, "Did Michael come with you?"

"No," Muntzy said, "just me… just us."

"Good," Lonnie replied. Muntzy couldn't see but she quietly chided herself for thinking that. While their brother-sister dynamic made life easier, the connection she had with Muntzy was what she needed right now.

More silence between the two of them. Muntzy gently kissed Lonnie on the top of her head and looked around them. He rubbed her shoulder as he closed his eyes as well, listening to the birds and the wind through the trees. For a second he thought she fell asleep, and for good reason too as she seemed to need a bit of rest, but after another plane passed overhead, she was the first to speak up.

"Why are you here?" she absentmindedly asked, "What are you getting out of all of this."

"I'm here to serve my country," Muntzy replied, although he wasn't sure what Lonnie was really asking or getting at. He figured this might be the best way to find out what was really bothering her.

Lonnie scoffed. Why, she had no idea because she heard his answer so many times before. Her head was so clouded with emotion; she didn't realize she had been crying for most of the conversation. She could feel Muntzy take in a huge breath and he tensed up. She offended him somehow with her scoff, but she didn't truly didn't mean anything by it. She wiped a few tears away and wanted to say something before she dug a deeper hole, but Muntzy was already on the defensive…

With a more emphatic voice, he said, "I watched my brother enlist and deploy to Afghanistan after 9/11, then get shipped over to Iraq for no God-damned reason and never come home! I wanted to serve, but I wanted to make a difference over here! Not in some far off land."

"Jordan…"

Muntzy cut her off, "Lonnie, I really want to help you through this, I want to fix whatever is bothering you – you I love you. You know I'm here, Lonnie. I'm here. But we got a hell of a case…"

Before Muntzy could barely finish the last word, Lonnie shot up straight and yelled, "The case! Of all fucking things to bring up now, you bring up the case?"

"Lonnie we got work to do, this is a major operation!"

"And we're the ones who get shot at when something goes wrong. Have you given any thought to that? Christ, you and Michael both said there are things about this case that bother you!"

Muntzy was trying to keep his patience, but it was starting to wear thin. "There are plenty of things that bother me, but it's not my place to worry about them! Besides, what the hell do you care? Michael and I are the ones in the middle of the shit, you're just going to be a…"

He stopped, realizing what he had just said.

That last part hurt. Lonnie stood up slowly but with her fists clenched. "I can't do this anymore, Jordan. I just…" Tears began to flow from her eyes again, "When this case is over, I'm done."

Muntzy stared at her for a moment, with a bemused expression on his face. He stood up and took a step towards her, but she took two steps back. "Lonnie? What are you talking about? Done with the Bureau? Or done with us?"

"Yes," was her simple reply.

He tried to take another step, but she repeated her previous move, "And then what, Lonnie? What comes after that? What will you do?"

Lonnie sobbed again, "I heard I'm really good at being a secretary."


	3. Chapter Three

A few miles up and a few hundred miles away from DC, Michael found himself on a Gulfstream jet with a mountain of paperwork surrounding him. Six months had passed since that briefing and when Lonnie stormed out of the room. It was the last time he saw or talked to her.

On the other side of that paperwork was Paul Taylor. Paul stood just a shade shorter than Michael, and both men had to stoop in the jet in order to move comfortably. He was somewhere between thin and stocky, definitely nowhere near overweight. His natural-hair was kept conservatively short, like most black men in the FBI. He was normally clean-shaven but was sporting a five o'clock shadow this particular evening.

To say Taylor was under stress would be an understatement. That briefing six months ago was just a mere memory compared to what was just around the corner. Himself and Michael were the last two members to head out to Vegas. Muntzy had been with the Montecito for the last couple months, and from what he heard Lonnie started working for NDS almost right away.

Aside from a few Assistant Directors, no one knew about their operation; NDS, the Montecito, and even portions of the Vegas Field Office were kept in the dark. The theft was to be carried out to the fullest extent, and make the arrests at the last minute – the Assistant Directors made that extremely clear to Natalie and Taylor. Mainly because they needed an airtight case for prosecution, and couldn't afford the embarrassment of any technicalities, for it could lead to the loss of a ton of government contracts if companies started feeling unsafe and vulnerable.

This didn't make Paul feel any comfortable, and what was worse, he couldn't tell how the others felt about it either. Not that the team needed any kind of handholding or extra support. In fact, he was glad they were the ones involved, because he knew he couldn't rely on anyone else. What troubled him was there was no margin for error. The slightest slipup could end up being catastrophic. Natalie's intel seemed legitimate, but then again, nobody's perfect.

And then Michael asked a question that he'd been dreading.

"Have you heard from Lonnie or Muntzy?"

The Muntzy part of the question wasn't what Taylor had been dreading. This one would be easy, "He checked in with me last night. He got on the night shift, finally. He'll be on duty during our whole operation," Taylor said. He left it at that.

Michael nodded in approval, glad to hear that Muntzy was okay, but if he thought that Taylor didn't notice him skip over Lonnie's well-being, he was sorely mistaken. Communication with Lonnie had been infrequent lately; she rushed out to NDS to get on their staff, hopefully close to security, Wilson, Grey, or whoever else she could to get on the inside.

In the beginning, she was reporting in regularly; Lonnie had no trouble getting into the most basic position – an administrative assistant, exactly where she didn't want to be but where she had to be. Lonnie's reports were consistent, albeit boring. 'Nothing significant to report' always rounded out her reports. It wasn't until a few months she was on the job when she had a brief run-in with Grey.

Lonnie took it upon herself to get the attention of NDS's security department and started testing some boundaries. She took a wrong turn on their campus and ended up face-to-face with Grey. That's when Taylor started to hear from her less and less. It worried Michael and even Natalie but Taylor tried to remain calm, or at least give the outwardly appearance of being calm. No one on his team could see him crack.

Either way, he hated the fact that Lonnie had been out of touch for so long. She must have been kept so close to the operation, or had the feeling she was being closely watched, she couldn't have given them any more information than what they were working from.

"You know how it is, man," Taylor said, "We couldn't help her get the job because God only knows who works where. She's gotta do this herself. And she did."

"That still doesn't make me feel better," Michael said.

"It doesn't help me sleep at night either, but we gotta trust her on this. The fact that she encountered Grey and we haven't heard from her much lately means she found something. And the fact that we hear from her sporadically means she's still alive."

That last part made Michael shudder. He hoped he would find her that way when he got to Vegas.

Taylor clapped his hands once – it was a habit of his to snap the team into action. Another habit that usually immediately followed the singular clap was his utterance of, "It's go time." Those two things were Taylor's way of getting to business, and the team was so conditioned to it, they knew it was time to get serious and start listening, "So who are you?"

Taylor's question was more of a drill for Michael's benefit. The team always ran these drills with each other in order to keep their cover stories straight. It was a clever strategy to allow them to fully adopt their undercover personas and avoid any deadly slip-ups.

Despite everything on Michael's mind, he was able to recite his cover flawlessly, "My name is Michael Roesler, I'm from West Chester, PA, I served in Second Battalion/Eleventh Marines at Pendleton, in Kilo Battery. Saw some action in Gulf Two, but not much. Got out, ran into some trouble, snagged a job with the Parallax Corporation and went right back in doing mercenary work disguised as contractor duties. I have a sketchy past before and after my service, few dings for drugs, assault, theft, and I probably couldn't pass a psych exam."

Taylor laughed at Michael's last statement, "I'm sure Michael Long would fail too."

The plan from six months ago was already well in operation – some of Wilson's original security staff were rounded up and arrested when their multiple warrants got called in, or for those who didn't have warrants, other means were made to keep them out of the way. As predicted, barely noticeable advertisements went out across less-than-reputable media sources and through underground word of mouth that a corporation was quietly looking for guys interested in temporary security work in Vegas. Men who can follow orders, ask no questions, and cash a handsome paycheck.

Taylor clapped once again, "So here's the deal," that was usually the next thing to follow his second clap, "Muntzy's going to be in the corridor outside Acton's room for as long as it takes. I'm not sure who is going to be making the theft, but I am hoping that Lonnie will be able to tell us beforehand so we know who to expect. Your job is to provide watchful security for Acton, but you need to keep a clear watch on Wilson and Grey. Natalie thinks that once the designs are stolen, they'll high-tail it out of there. We're going to stop them before they leave the building."

"How do we make sure they don't slip out somewhere we aren't?"

"I'll be inside casino security monitoring their cameras. We're keeping them in the dark and just telling them the FBI has a classified interest with something going on in their hotel."

"I bet they're gonna hate that," Michael said.

"They already do," Taylor said, "but they'll deal with it. We also will have agents from the Vegas Field Office on supply. They're being told info on a need to know basis, but will be there for backup."

"Good, less people to get in the way," Michael said.

"Just how I like it," Taylor said, "It's all us, baby."

A few hours later, the Gulfstream landed at a small airport in Kingman, AZ. Michael was going to be let off there and drive the rest of the way into Vegas. He didn't want to take anything to chance, and the fact that he would step off a private jet registered to the Department of Homeland Security would not bode well for his cover.

Michael reviewed the intricate plans in his head as he drove into town. Everything sounded good on paper, hell it sounded great in his head and even better when he went over it with Taylor a few hours ago. But Michael felt that he might have jinxed himself when he made it seem like the operation was a sure-thing. What were the X-factors? Where there any loose ends that Natalie might have over looked in her analysis? Any holes in the plan?

Sting operations like these were never easy, but Michael had been in them before. Same with Lonnie and Muntzy… This gut feeling was normal, Michael kept telling himself. He briefly let go of the wheel, clapped his hands once and said, "It's go time." He hoped that the emulation of Taylor would make him feel better.

It didn't.


	4. Chapter Four

Fred Wilson paced the hotel suite as he waited for his newest and temporary security guard to arrive. Wilson didn't have much of an imposing form, but he liked it that way, and he let Grey handle that. Grey stood at an even six feet tall, but looked taller due to his slender body. His salt and pepper hair kept high and tight matched his name perfectly, and he had a rugged face with pockmarks that each seemed to have their own story.

Wilson, on the other hand, looked like an everyman, which helped him blend into the crowd. He was shorter than Grey, and a bit stockier. Both him and Grey almost always wore suits, a causality of their occupations in corporate security. The suits provided them the credibility and authority they needed to get the jobs done. Between the two of them, there was nowhere they couldn't access without a good suit, an all-knowing expression on their face, and an evident purpose in the way they walked.

Even now Wilson had a purpose with his pacing. He was uneasy. "I don't like this," he said.

Grey, who had been watching Wilson wear a patch into the carpet this whole time, stood up from the sofa and fixed himself a drink from the mini-bar, "What other choice do we have?" Grey spoke with a distinct southern-drawl and a deadpan expression, "besides they're just here for show and to make Acton feel better. They'll keep him distracted, maybe even run interference for us, and we'll be on the road before you know it. This is going to work for us in the long run, short notice, good pay that's not our money, these guys know not to ask questions."

Wilson nodded his head in understanding. The security staff he used did not have the most stellar records, but he was able to forge all background checks to allow them in. He found that ex-military, or ex-contractors with questionable pasts were easy to control, and more apt to follow orders. But a handful of those guys got picked up, forcing Wilson and Grey to act quickly. That worried him the most. "This is our biggest operation, we'll be able to quietly disappear for a long time after this."

Grey smirked briefly. A knock on the door in the other room caught his attention. "About time," he said, "he's late. Not the best impression for a former Marine."

"You've seen his record just like I have," Wilson said, "are you surprised?" He walked towards the living room of the suite and called into it, "Can you see who that is?"

* * *

On the opposite side of the door, Michael stood and waited to be let inside. He had to silently laugh to himself; once again he was first through the door. Only this time no one was behind him. But he wasn't quite alone; Muntzy was a few clicks down the corridor pretending to work on something. Michael shot a quick glance to Muntzy who nodded back.

The door opened and Michael was facing someone he didn't expect to see… it was Lonnie!

What in the hell was she doing there? Taylor said she had some kind of encounter with Grey, but he didn't expect to see her here in their suite. How far did she get? What did she find?

Both of them had to stifle any hints of recognition, but the look in their eyes was the instant gratification of brother and sister, albeit surrogate, being reunited. "Can I help you?" Lonnie asked.

"I'm Roesler," Michael replied, "I'm here to see Wilson and Grey."

"You're late," Lonnie said, "they've been waiting for you." She stepped aside and allowed Michael to pass. By this time, both Grey and Wilson had entered the room.

"That will be all," Wilson said to Lonnie who dismissed herself to the next room. She gave one glance back to Michael behind Wilson's and Grey's backs before she closed the door.

Michael looked around the room and nodded his head slightly to both men, "Sirs," he said. He looked around the empty room. He felt somewhat vulnerable, as if it was he versus them. Wilson gestured for Michael to sit, who shook his head and politely declined. Upon his initial observations, he could tell that Wilson didn't have prior military experience, as stiff as the man was, he was still too loose around the edges. He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms while Grey remained steadfast.

Seeing Lonnie shook him significantly, he wasn't expecting that. But being in the same room as Grey was unnerving for Michael. He still couldn't place where he knew him from, how he knew him, or hell, even if he knew him at all. But something about the man was unsettling enough to Michael to make sure his guard is up. As if it wasn't already.

"Here's the deal," Wilson said, our CEO Charles Acton is coming into town tomorrow on vacation. Acton can be reckless and unpredictable – it's his money to do with as he pleases, but it's how he handles it. He insists on carrying the chips, hardly cashes out with his large winnings. All he has with him is his personal assistant, Tanya Walker. You're going to be assigned to him for some extra piece of mind."

Michael nodded. He figured the less he said the better. Besides, it would add an air of mystery to his character.

"We picked you based upon your record, Mr. Roesler," Grey said, "we know this is a short notice and short term assignment, but considering the other temporary guys on the job, you're our best option."

"Thank you, sir," Michael said.

Wilson stood up straight and tightened his tie, "Don't let it get to your head. You have a job to do, so do it. You'll meet him and Miss Walker at the airport tomorrow evening, and you stay on his heels the whole time."

Michael nodded again.

"Good," Wilson said. He extended his hand and Michael shook it. He held his grip longer and looked Michael in the eye, "You're accepting a contract, Mr. Roesler—an assignment. From here on out every order you follow comes from me and only me. You get this done, you'll be rewarded very well."

"Sounds like my kind of gig," Michael replied.

"Get some rest, we start tomorrow."

Michael was ushered out of the suite by Grey. He wanted to stop and listen at the door but kept walking in case Grey was watching him from the peephole. Lonnie was in there somewhere – how did she play in all of this?

He made his way down the corridor and ensured he was out of sight before meeting Muntzy by the elevators again, "You wont believe who's in that room," Michael said.

Muntzy's head shot to the left, instantly shooting a gaze down the corridor. There was no doubt he was alarmed and concerned for her safety. He looked back at Michael with a 'what-the-hell' expression on his face.

"She's okay," Michael said, "she gave me a signal that she's fine, but she wasn't able to talk."

"What the hell is she doing in there? I thought she was going in as a secretary," Muntzy said, "Is this why we haven't heard from her in awhile?"

Michael nodded. There wasn't much else to be said, or anything to make himself or Muntzy feel better. "She's trained for this, she'll be fine. She knows what she's doing. I'll be close to Acton all night," he said.

"You'll be fine, you're the original man of steel," Muntzy said. He gently tapped on Michael's forehead, "she's the one I'm worried about now, she's the one in that bed of snakes."

The doors to the elevator opened and the two men got in. Michael checked his watch. Everything was about to go down in less than 20 hours. He let his mind wander from the case for awhile as the elevator journeyed down to the lobby. He thought about Stevie… He pictured her face… her pale skin, her blue eyes and blonde hair. That smile of hers which melted his heart and any wheelpower—she always got her way when she flashed that.

But then he thought more of Lonnie and tomorrow's operation, and those damn variable's and what-if's that were bound to keep him awake at night. Michael was going to be stuck next to the CEO and his girlfriend all night, Lonnie was going to be God-know's-where, and Muntzy was going to be outside Acton's suite. All the while, the man behind the curtain, Taylor, would be watching from the Montecito's security room. The three men would be in contact with each other through inconspicuous ear buds.

Everything seemed covered – so why was Michael worried about tomorrow? Was it the fact that Lonnie is in way deeper than they could have expected? Or was it the fact that he somehow knew Grey, but just couldn't figure it out?

Muntzy quickly hit the floor above the lobby and the elevator stopped. They couldn't afford being seen together any further unless absolutely necessary.

"Relax partner, we got six months in this, I'll be right behind you," Michael said, "we're going to have these guys right where we want them."

Michael wasn't sure why he really said what he did. Maybe it was to reassure Muntzy that Lonnie would be safe, or maybe to reassure himself that the operation would be flawless tomorrow and at the end of the day, the good guys win. All he knew, there was a hell of a lot more at stake tomorrow than some microchip design.

Muntzy walked through the open elevator doors and turned around, "Looks like I'm the first through the doors this time, Mike."

Both men laughed and bumped fists.

"Go time?" Muntzy asked.

"Go time."

Muntzy waited for the doors to close completely before he collapsed against an adjoining wall and lost his breath and composure. It was all he could to keep from telling Michael about the awful exchange he and Lonnie had six months ago. Not because that it was none of Michael's business, but because he didn't want Michael, or even Taylor for that matter to worry about her.

No. That was his job, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about.

Maybe he should have told Michael or Taylor… If anything those men could keep an eye on her somehow, while he was stuck on a ladder all damn night. That made him feel even worse – Lonnie was in some kind of danger and he couldn't help.

He thought about how often she chided him for trying to fix whatever was bothering her – this is one situation where he definitely couldn't. Wherever she was, Lonnie was on her own.


	5. Chapter Five

The limousine stopped under the porte-cochere of the Montecito. Acton could have easily chartered his own, but the Montecito insisted on bringing him in style. Unfortunately for him, a man who likes to avoid being flashy and gaudy, he arrived in a gold limo with the Montecito's logo proudly displayed on the side.

Michael got out of the limo and looked around briefly. For what, he had no idea, but he was playing the part of Acton's guard to the fullest degree possible. Wilson came out next, followed by the strawberry-blonde younger woman who always seemed to be at Acton's side, Tanya Walker – his personal assistant who Michael surmised assisted him in much more personal matters. She slid her hand back inside to the limo and gently grasped Acton's hand as he got out. Michael noted that Acton had lost more hair since the picture he saw six months ago while Tanya hadn't changed a bit.

Wilson instructed the Montecito's valet staff to take Acton's belongings up to his room immediately. He gestured for Michael to come towards him, "Acton's going to want to play right away – he has a favorite table in the high-roller pit which should have been cleared, go see to it and we'll meet you there."

Michael, continuing his mysterious-silent-mercenary shtick, simply nodded and walked inside the casino.

_"Wilson has you on an errand run, I see," _Taylor said over Michael's earpiece.

Michael passed one of the other temporary security guards that Wilson brought on and nodded quickly before responding to Taylor. He was careful to adjust his head in a way so people wouldn't think he was talking to himself, "Out of all the people to watch, you're paying attention to me?"

_"I have a lot of monitors in front of me, and Montecito Security doesn't look happy that I'm here."_

"I'm not surprised," Michael said as he sidestepped a handful of drunk girls followed by an entourage of equally drunk men, "are they still in the dark about everything?"

_"As much as I can keep them, yes."_

"Where's Lonnie? Can you find her?"

_"She's with Grey, they just briefed a security guard in front of Acton's suite and are making their way to the casino floor. Do you have any idea what she is up to and how she ended up with Wilson and Grey?"_

"All I know is what I told you this morning," Michael said, "but keep an eye on her. I don't like how deep she's gotten."

_"You gotta admit, she got her wish. Like it or not, she has a piece of the action."_

A crowd was leaving the high roller pit as Michael approached it – Acton's table was clear and ready and a casino host was standing by. He took out his cellphone to text Wilson. Michael was getting punchy and impatient, which was a rarity. He wanted to text 'Acton is ready for Action' but knew Wilson most likely didn't have a sense of humor. He texted some bland statement saying the craps table was ready. Michael couldn't tell why he was in this mood; maybe some of it had to do with Lonnie, or maybe because he still couldn't figure out how he knew Grey.

Acton, Tanya and Wilson must not have been too far behind, because when Michael looked up they were approaching his location. "Go time," Michael whispered.

_"You bet your ass,"_ Taylor quickly shot back.

* * *

Upstairs, Muntzy exited the elevator and carried a toolbox in one hand, and a ladder in another. He was a short Hispanic man, and was frequently towered over by Michael when they stood side-by-side. Muntzy had on his Montecito maintenance uniform that he wore for the last few weeks. He was lucky he had standard maintenance knowledge to get by.

A few clicks down the hallway, he noticed a security guard standing in front of Acton's suite. It wasn't one of the Montecito's, but one of Wilson's private guards, it seemed. They were at a disadvantage of the temporary muscle that Wilson and Grey put together on short notice. Everyone seemed to be operating independently of each other and reporting only to Wilson.

Unwavering, Muntzy kept walking until he reached a lighting fixture just on the other side of the suite. He flashed a courtesy nod to the guard and began to set up shop.

"Nothing wrong with that light," the guard sharply stated.

"Looks pretty good, right?" Muntzy asked, "but we had a few reports of it flickering over the last few days. Can't have that, can we?"

"I didn't notice anything."

"Neither did I the few times they sent me up here to fix it, but we keep getting complaints from the high rollers up here. Flickering may be throwing off their rhythm with the girls, know what I mean?" Muntzy wobbled the ladder to animate his point, "Last thing we need is the veeps complaining about losing money and their mojo."

* * *

Acton found his groove downstairs at the craps table and had attracted quite the crowd. Tanya stayed close to his side to blow on his dice for every roll. Afar, a few of Wilson's guards attempted to be inconspicuous, while Wilson himself and Lonnie circled the area, arm-in-arm and glancing at the table every now and then.

Lonnie looked good. Michael figured that she may have felt overdressed for such an occasion, but she was stunning in her violet gown. Lonnie was about as tall as Muntzy and had to regularly look up at Michael, though tonight she stood higher due to the sunken high-roller's area. Her long flowing brown hair ended in curls and accentuated her white skin. Not bad for a surrogate little sister, he thought.

There were many times where Michael noticed how Muntzy would look at Lonnie and how she would look at him. He had given some thought a few times to attempt to play matchmaker, but never could figure the right way to go about it. Also, Stevie talked him out of it at every turn, which was funny considering how close she got to the team herself. Maybe she knew something he didn't.

He wondered what was going through Lonnie's head right now. She all but vanished off the grid after meeting Grey, and months later she opens the door, literally for Michael to infiltrate the operation. He wondered how comfortable she was – such deep cover severed all her connections to the Bureau, her real life… everything. Michael was used to that, Lonnie wasn't. Was it everything she had hoped for?

There wasn't much Michael liked about Tanya. Everything about her screamed gold-digger; the way she saddled up against Acton, the expression in her eyes when she looked at him, or vice versa. Hell, Michael even kept a mental count of Acton's chips to make sure she wasn't ripping him off too. It was the least he could do, after all.

Acton was too trusting, Michael surmised. Probably never was the victim for any kind of serious loss; never got robbed, mugged, or stolen from. No way in hell did he run any kind of background checks on Wilson or Grey, or Tanya for that matter. Not only that, but he slid a few chips every now and then to Michael to play a few hands. Not a bad guy, Michael thought, but the poor bastard had no idea what he was in for.

Michael noticed that Wilson and Lonnie had stopped, and Wilson was saying something to her.

A voice broke Michael's gaze from Lonnie – it was Acton's, "Mike I know she looks good, but I pay better," he said. He slid Michael some more chips, "Come on, let's have some fun. Besides, you'll be seeing more of her later."

"Sir?" Michael asked.

"You're good, Mike – I know Fred brought you on just to help out here, but like it or not, you're coming back with us to work a bit longer."

Michael nodded, "I appreciate it sir." He glanced over again and Lonnie was gone. Michael bent over the table to place his chips. His skill at craps was novice at best, and he tried to emulate those around him. Why not? Acton had handed him $1,000 in chips. He used his betting to discreetly whisper to Taylor, "Wilson just sent Lonnie somewhere."

_"I got her," _Taylor said over Michael's clandestine earpiece, _"She's in an elevator heading up to the 64__th__ floor."_

Michael placed another bet, "That's where Acton's suite is. Head's up, Muntzy."

A collective groan came from the table. At first, Michael thought he made a bad bet and everyone was calling him out on it, but it turned out that Acton crapped out.

Michael was next in line as the croupier called for a new roller. He tried to protest but Acton insisted and pressed the dice into Michael's hand. Before he could roll, Tanya leaned over Acton and blew on the dice. "For luck," she said. She held her gaze with Michael's for longer than what was socially acceptable, or comfortable for that matter. Michael simply nodded and rolled the dice.

It was a seven and the table cheered. "You're hired, Mike," Acton said, "I can't lose tonight!"

* * *

The elevator doors opened on the 64th floor and Lonnie sauntered out. Ahead of her, Muntzy was working on another light fixture, trying to keep busy in front of the overly curious guard.

Damn, she looked great, he thought. He eyed her as she walked towards the suite, trying not to be too obvious. The two of them hadn't spoken since that day on Roosevelt Island six months ago… he tried his best to forget about it and hoped maybe the time apart would help her calm down. Maybe the fact that she got close to both Wilson and Grey gave her the kind of confidence boost she needed. And maybe if there's a chance for that, there's a chance he can save their relationship when this is over.

That gown of hers fit perfectly, her wavy hair danced upon the very light freckles on her shoulders and her eyes… God those beautiful green eyes. Lonnie moved with purpose, her eyes never taking their gaze of the guard in front of Acton's suite. He wanted her to look at him, he wanted to lock a gaze with hers – they became so good at staring at each other and having almost whole conversations without a word spoken. If she just looked up, just so they could both know that they were OK.

But no. And it was killing him inside because he had no idea if she was playing the part and didn't want to compromise their safety, or if there was something more and she really meant that she was done. Really done.

She walked past him and straight up to the guard, "I need to get in to Mr. Acton's suite."

"Sorry, ma'am, I can't allow access to this suite," the guard firmly said, "Mr. Wilson and Mr. Grey's orders."

"Wilson sent me up here," Lonnie shot back, seemingly frustrated.

"Sorry ma'am but I was told to allow no one access to Mr. Acton's suite."

Lonnie stood there for a second, and looked up and Muntzy who at that point was intently observing their conversation, "Can I help you?"

Muntzy shook his head and went back to the light fixture, "No ma'am," What the hell was that about, he wondered? He hoped Lonnie knew what she was doing, not that she wasn't trained, but what she was getting herself into.

_"Muntzy what the hell was that about?" _Taylor demanded over the earpiece.

"Not now," Muntzy hurriedly whispered back.

Lonnie started back on the guard again, this time with a more persistent and annoyed tone, "Look, Mr. Giddings, you know who I am and you know I work for Wilson and Grey…"

That's new, Muntzy thought as she laid into the guard. Lonnie must have gotten deeper than everyone thought.

"…I'm on the same security team just as you are. I know you're new, but Wilson's orders: I'm here to get into that suite."

The guard, Giddings, hesitated for a second, it was obvious he was being placed into an uncomfortable position, "I'll need to call Mr. Wilson first."

That's when it happened. Lonnie pushed Giddings against the door with such force that the vibrations traveled through Muntzy's ladder. Her martial arts training was no match for the guard; she kneed him in the groin, then the stomach, and finally brought his head against the opposite wall in the corridor.

Muntzy was down off of his ladder within seconds and was behind Lonnie instantly, he tried to pry her grip off the Giddings. What she did next caused Muntzy's blood to run cold and his stomach to drop; she pushed him off of her and spun around aiming a small handgun at his head.

He froze, "Lonnie what the hell are you doing?"

Lonnie kept the gun trained on him and didn't flinch, "I told you I was done," she said. Muntzy could tell she was trying her damnedest to maintain composure, but she broke and a lone tear fell down her cheek. The gun wavered in her hand, "Jordan," she said, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

* * *

Back downstairs; Michael visibly flinched as Taylor screamed through his earpiece to get upstairs. He dropped the dice on the ground and everything around him stopped. He didn't have a whole lot of time to explain his predicament, "Wait here Mr. Acton and don't move," would have to suffice.

He ran out of the craps pit and noted that Wilson was nowhere to be found. Behind him, he could hear the confusion and Tanya screaming his name.

"Paul, I need a twenty on Wilson, I lost him," Michael said.

_"Worry about him later, just get to sixty-four,"_ Taylor shot back.

Michael slid into an elevator and punched the required floor. He saw Tanya running towards him as the doors started to close. She made a futile effort to join him, but Michael held her off, "Stay with Acton, I'll be back."

"You're paid to protect him!" she yelled through closed doors.

* * *

Muntzy stared down the shaking barrel of Lonnie's handgun. He stood fast with his hands partially extended by his sides, "Lonnie, we need to talk about our situation here," he said softly.

"There's nothing to talk about, Jordan," she said in between sobs, "this doesn't involve you, I'm trying to keep you out of this."

Lonnie's hand was still trembling. Muntzy could tell this wasn't something she entirely wanted to do. What he couldn't figure out was if she was being coerced, forced, or worse; if she turned on them and was having second thoughts. Either way, there wasn't a lot of time for questions or conversation.

Suddenly, he felt searing hot pain in the middle of his back, followed by the sound of the gunshot milliseconds later and Lonnie's scream just a millisecond later. His legs immediately gave out from under him. It wasn't Lonnie who shot him… it was someone from behind. The pain was became more excruciating with every breath he struggled to take. He looked up at Lonnie who was kneeling by his side. Whatever she was trying to say to him, he could barely make it out, everything that entered his ears echoed. At best, he could see her mouthing the words "sorry" and "love" over and over.

It was hard to see much, however, as his vision became increasingly tunneled, almost as if he was being pulled away.

Or maybe she was being pulled away… Someone stepped over him and grabbed her by the arm and dragged her down the corridor, but he couldn't tell who. Struggling to see as his world increasingly collapsed around him, it was Grey.

Michael tore out of the elevator as the doors opened. Ahead of him he saw a form crumpled on the floor and a fallen ladder.

He found Muntzy on his side, contorted slightly and bleeding from both his back and stomach. "Muntzy!" he beckoned, hoping to find some form of life.

Muntzy stirred, only slightly. It was obvious he was in a lot of pain. Michael lowered himself as much as he could, "Christ, Jordan, hang on, we'll get help. Taylor's coming."

More blood started to pool on the floor under Muntzy. He tried to speak but coughed up blood instead. Some of it splattered on Michael's face. He grabbed Michael's sleeve with his last bit of strength, "Lonnie," he wheezed, "Don't believe what she says… Go get her."

What in the hell did that mean? Michael didn't have a chance to ask for more details, Muntzy's grip went soft and he lost consciousness.

Adrenaline took over for Michael, he pushed himself up from the floor and tore towards the elevator. For whatever reason he had to find Lonnie. He stomach dropped at the thought of her doing this to Muntzy. What the hell was going on?

He punched the call button for the elevator and one of the doors opened a split second later. Out poured some Montecito security guards, paramedics, and local FBI agents from the Vegas Field Office. Taylor was the last to exit, and Michael grabbed his arm.

"We got a problem."


End file.
